Category Archives: Views From The Inside

Views From The Inside

Oh, To Have A White Picket Fence…

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Most of my life I tried to rationalize my circumstances, believing things would be different if I had been given the ‘White Picket Fence’ dream.  Instead – I’m a product of my environment.  I grew up in a community plagued by gangs, violence, drugs, and HIV/AIDS.  It wasn’t until I met my friend, Scott Moore, I was able to accept the path I carved out for myself.

Scott literally had a white picket fence around his home, a home fully paid for by his thirtieth birthday. He married a preacher’s daughter, and they have three beautiful children.  His grandparents owned a farm, and his eyes light up when he shows me photos of riding horses with his big brother.  He lived a life I wish I had, and yet he’s two cells away in this hellhole we call prison.  I didn’t understand why.

It wasn’t until the day I sat listening to one of his stories about being a cable guy in East St. Louis that I found the courage to ask how he ended up in this place.

“Well, Alex,” he said, “Heroin is how I got here.”

It all started when he was just a kid, and his parents got divorced.  His older brother processed the divorce with great difficulty.  Scott was able to bury his feelings, but his brother turned to drugs, and it led to an opiate addiction.  While his brother was entering in and out of prison, Scott was able to finish high school and found a high-paying job.  He kept it together on the surface, believing he had overcome his parents’ divorce, and he couldn’t empathize with his brother.  He would even go out of his way to put him down, hoping it would help him get his act together.

Things were fine in Scott’s life until one day when he went to visit his mom at her home.  He found her severely wounded and his brother dead in the basement.  It’s easy to see when Scott talks of this storm in his life, that it haunts him.  After he dialed 911 he grabbed his brother’s pills, and his own addiction began. 

He watched his mother have three surgeries on her brain and steel plates inserted to support the damage to her skull. The pills had a numbing effect, and he took them to keep his heart from continuing to ache. When his mother came out of that first surgery, he was the one who had to explain to her that her oldest child was no longer alive.

The pills led to abusing heroin because it was easier and cheaper to score, and his life spiraled out of control. He alienated himself from his family, and the relationship he had with his wife and kids suffered.  He lost his job.  Eventually, he was arrested for first degree murder in Madison County.

I’ve been around plenty of heroin addicts, but Scott is not a person who fits the criteria of the average addict.  Instead, I see someone who did not know how to deal with a crisis and sought to remedy it the way his brother did, a brother he could no longer turn to.  I see someone trying to sweep up the remaining pieces of his life by righting his wrongs.  I see someone who longs to be with what’s left of his family.  I see a man truly sorry for the choices he made. 

Scott is not only a brother to me and our close knit group of friends, he’s also a mentor in the beloved community we are building within these walls.  When any of us are down, he’s able to lift us up with his light-hearted nature and wealth of pop culture knowledge. When any of us need consultation, he’s available and ready to offer his advice. He gets up every morning using his past as a driving force to make himself and others around him better.

If I had the power and resources to give someone a second chance – this person would receive it.  Without knowing Scott, my own personal growth would be stagnant and incomplete. His story and how he’s endured and overcome his addiction is helping to transform the lives of those around him. No one knows the storms we’ve each been through until we take the time to get to know each other, and if you encounter someone suffering from addiction, I pray you remember Scott’s story. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. I’m happy to say Alex Negron is the winner of our first writing contest of 2020. This prompt brought out the advocate in many, and it was heartwarming. If we could all take on the practice of looking out for and speaking up for each other – the world would be a better place. Mr. Negron can be contacted at:
Alex Negron R17084
Stateville Correctional Center
P.O. Box 112
Joliet, IL 60434

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Views From The Inside

The Sun Traces The Day

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In this prison, the ‘dayroom’ is a common area where all the uncommon souls – the offender population – congregate. Most come to the dayroom to perform all manner of inconsideration, smacking tables with chess pieces, cards, dominoes, and fists of anger.  Some, made mentally ill either by nature or time, wander around letting dead skin fall from their bodies to be swept down one of the many floor drains, until one day they disappear altogether.

The hapless State experiments shuffle about, carrying out a primal social dance, a continuous pecking order struggle to determine who the coolest monkey is.  The players are ever-changing, but the wicked waltz remains the same, and nauseating to witness.  For what humans commonly refer to as ‘lower animals’, there are reasons to build a social hierarchy, their strutting around and exhibiting odd behavior means something exciting or necessary hangs in the balance, such as food and resources or a prospective mate to ensure their genes are passed on and their lineage strengthened.  But in prison we’re all provided the same amount of food and there are no mates to speak of – yet some still try.

The minutes we’re killing while witnessing this horror are marked on an unreliable, cheap Walmart clock on the wall or the bit of light that beams through the barred skylights in the ceiling and shine into our gray tomb.   The sun traces the day on the bare concrete floor and moves across as the hours proceed, a primitive sundial. It’s nine a.m. so the light is about three quarters of the way down the Western wall and will move downward through the day, out across the floor, then up the Eastern wall, following a funeral procession of dead minutes.  The bright sun spot a stoic observer of passive human treachery. 

In the air-conditioning unit, a worn bearing sings a whirring aria, the constant sick hum of poorly maintained machinery raising the overall level of irritation in the homo sapiens exhibit, and a poor, deranged man walks in circles talking to himself.  His name is Melvin, and he’s been here about 35 years. Melvin didn’t kill anyone, but he’ll die in prison.  He signifies what can happen to anyone who has been locked up for a long time.  Melvin walks around like a caged animal and talks to himself.  He sometimes stands in the shower with a t-shirt on and argues with himself for an hour. His body was imprisoned, and his mind followed shortly thereafter. The healthy light has long since been extinguished from his eyes, his pained orbs now cloudy and gray. They could chemically lobotomize him if they cared that he was tortured by his semi-conscious psychosis.  But alas, they do not care.  A chemical lobotomy would only render him a quivering mound of medicated flesh, allowing him to escape the punishment he deserves.  Melvin is sustained by rumors and cheap carbohydrates provided by the State. The rumors are the same as they’ve always been. They go something like, “Take heart for the times they are  a changin’, and the State may be admitting that the current prison model is unsustainable.”  I imagine this gives Melvin hope that he may make it aboard that change train and not have to die in this unholy scab heap.

Melvin often asks me questions and hopes I’ll reply with something to sustain him, but I refuse to provide false hope, it is cruel.  Some laugh at him.  I do not.  I am more concerned than amused.  Melvin has suffered enough, but I am also afraid that with no warning, I will begin to argue with myself. It may have already started, as people say I often appear to be whispering to myself when no one’s around.  Apparently, my lips are always moving, which I had previously been unaware of. I hope its only the monotony affecting me and I’m not losing my mind. These things only exacerbate an already intense feeling of urgency that life is passing me and my friends by.

These friends I’ve grown up in prison with were children when they committed their offenses, but they have since grown into admirable men. The sometimes overwhelming sense of urgency I feel is more for them than myself. I have a light at the end of the tunnel, they do not. I don’t want anyone else to end up like poor old Melvin. I am told that life’s tough, and I can personally attest to that.  Prison life is a bit harder, yet people consistently ask me what prison is like, and all I can offer is this.  If you want to know what prison is, prison is being relentlessly pummeled by the guilt and shame of our offenses and constantly bombarded with the irritation of the aforementioned malcontents, defiling the closest thing I have to a home. It isn’t what some would have you believe.  It isn’t Syria, but it also isn’t a nonstop party with cable TV and catered food.  Its prison… It cannot be romanticized or dramatized because what it is, at its core, is ugly and shameful – a dumping ground for throwaways and undesirables.

If it’s punishment you want… mission accomplished.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Joshua King was the judges’ second place choice in our recent writing contest. He is a talented writer and was also one of a handful of Honorable Mentions in our previous contest. All the writers rose to the occasion for this prompt, and Mr. King was actually the most consistantly voted for amongst the judges, with everyone placing him in their top three. Joshua can be contacted at:
Joshua King #69192
ISCC-F2-28A
P.O. Box 70010
Boise, Idaho 83707

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Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

Conversations With Birds

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When I first met – let’s just call him Cheese – it was the year 2000, and he’d already been in solitary for twenty-something years.  He looked to be in his early fifties then, and I marveled at his resilience.  Every Monday through Friday he’d go outside to run and do calisthenics to stay in shape. No matter rain, sleet, snow, ninety degrees or ten, Cheese was getting his yard time. He was an inspiration to those of us beginning our time.

I never talked to Cheese, so I never knew why he was in solitary so long, but rumor had it he was involved in an attack on a guard in the 70’s or 80’s.  I myself had been involved in a staff related incident so I was curious, hoping I wouldn’t be in solitary that long. 

I eventually left that prison and never kept up with how Cheese was doing, but in 2017 I again found myself in a prison with him.  The man I saw was a shell of the person I’d met seventeen years earlier.  He was now nearly seventy years old and a completely different person, both physically and mentally.  I’d heard of and experienced the affects of solitary confinement, but what I saw left no doubt what it can do to a man. Cheese was old and broken down.  He was using a walking aid because his hip needed to be replaced, and as bad as his physical problems were, his mental deterioration shocked me even more. Once proud and defiant, Cheese was now delusional and had difficulty holding a conversation.  When you did hear him talking, his conversations were with the birds who’d made a home inside the tarp atop the exercise cages.

At this point, Cheese isn’t a threat to anybody. There’s not one legitimate penal justification for keeping him in solitary, but sadly it appears that the Department of Corrections is just waiting for him to die.  I can’t help but wonder if I’ll be him in another twenty years. Right now my feeling is that I’d rather be dead than experience myself slowly wilt away. From where I stand, suicide seems the better option.

I recognize getting out of solitary and into general population isn’t the same as going home, but Cheese should be released from solitary. Let the man at least attempt to recover from the damage of long-term solitary confinement and live out his remaining years not having to be strip searched and hand-cuffed every time he leaves his cell; not having to always eat alone; not having a light on for twenty-four hours a day, making it difficult to sleep; not being forced to change cells every ninety days, making it impossible to get comfortable; not being denied access to religious, vocational, and educational services – and not having anyone but the birds to talk to. Let Cheese live out the rest of his life with some semblance of dignity. Show him some compassion and stop punishing him for a mistake he made more than forty years ago. 

ABOUT THE WRITER: Sterlin Reaves is the third place winner of our writing contest. The point of the contest was for the writer to use their words to make people care about someone else – to help us walk in their shoes. He did just that. Mr. Reaves can be contacted at:

SC – Sterlin Reaves DX-5999
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733

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Harsh Sentences, Views From The Inside, Why We Advocate

Isn’t Nearly Fifty Years Of Punishment Enough For Leonard Bradford-Bey?

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Growing up in Detroit on Brady & Hastings in a once vibrant and bustling neighborhood where blacks owned several businesses and created jobs and livelihoods for many who resided there, Leonard aka Leanbone – a nickname given to him by his uncle due to his skinny frame – learned early on how to survive by adapting and finding ways to cope with the many challenges he faced.  It was during those years, he experienced his own personal trauma as well as witnessing police brutality.   Those experiences led him down a road of dysfunction, despair and destruction.  Leonard shared with me how his nearly fifty year incarceration has taken its toll on his health.  He now battles cancer, requires a cane in order to get around and has a prisoner assistant help him with his meals and other necessities.

Leonard attributes the path he chose in good part to bad choices and poor decision-making, which led him to a life of crime that ultimately resulted in a man losing his life during a stick-up attempt. Leonard expresses regret and remorse for the harm he caused the victim, their family, his family, the black community and society as a whole because that’s who was impacted by his reckless and out-of-control behavior.

This writer can relate to Leonard and the harm he caused because I am also responsible for a young black man losing his life to an act of senseless violence. It’s sad that we didn’t value the life of another human-being and acted so impulsively.  However, men like Leonard Bradford-Bey, who is now almost 70 years-old, realize the devastation of past criminal behavior.  He strives relentlessly to deter the same behavior in younger men and has become a well-known mentor and example that others can follow despite being behind bars.  Even so, as I peer into Leonard’s eyes, I see agony and shame for past deeds.

Leonard’s health is rapidly deteriorating, and at this point, with the life expectancy of a black man, he is living on what we call ‘borrowed time’.  The stress of having to deal with cancer and not receiving adequate healthcare can lead to more health issues. I have been around Leonard for the past 35 years or more and watched him go from an athletically-inclined, able-bodied individual, to that of a nearly handicapped man in need of constant assistance to get around on a daily basis. It saddens my heart and pulls at the core of my soul to see my friend become slowly debilitated before my eyes. If punishing offenders for crimes they’ve been convicted of includes this form of torturous madness, having them deal with life ending illnesses like cancer, heart disease, and kidney failure behind these bars – then I must ask… At what point is prolonged incarceration enough, especially if its met the threshold of its intended penological purpose? In other words, if the punitive and retributive aspects have been reached, why not then focus on the rehabilitative and transformative aspects of an individual’s growth and maturation out of criminality? Leonard has evolved and worked for his transformation, even earning a one year certificate towards his Associates Degree.

Over the last four decades, I’ve had to witness countless folks like Leonard suffer and wither away to near nothingness.  The reality of it hits home because I can honestly put myself in Leonard’s shoes as I am approaching the same age bracket and have serious health concerns as well. I realize that many of us have committed  terrible acts of violence, and people have lost their lives. However many of us, like Leonard, have shown and genuinely expressed our remorse and sorrow, shown sincere empathy, and taken full responsibility for our actions which led up to the crime and the offense itself.

In the early ’80s I was housed at Marquette Branch Prison, an old prison known for its vicious and volatile violence and stark similarities and resemblance to Alcatraz because it sits less than 50 yards off Lake Superior. One day a prisoner was aggressively harassing a young female prison guard who was terrified.  Leonard happened to walk up and see the fear in the guard’s eyes and the danger she was in. He immediately intervened and saved  her from harm. He didn’t consider the harm he was putting himself in, but that was Bradford-Bey for you. He wasn’t little Leanbone anymore, he was 6 foot tall and 260 lbs. – Grandman. He transitioned from being known as Leanbone to Grandman because he became a political activist and spiritual leader. He was a straight up cat, who didn’t particularly like to see anyone taken advantage of. I believe in my heart that if Leonard was to be released tomorrow, he could contribute something good to his community. If you were to talk with anyone here in the Michigan Prison System, I have no doubt whatsoever they would agree with me that he is the last of the Mohicans and surely a soul worth saving from this madness of prolonged unnecessary incarceration and the physical and mental suffering he deals with everyday. I pray the day comes they release Leonard and let him live the remaining days of his life on the other side of the gate.

Dedicated to Leonard ‘Grandman’ Bradford-Bey – From One Soul Brother to Another.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Ricardo Ferrell sent in the last entry recieved in a recent writing contest. I had never seen his writing before his essay arrived. Although the combined judges’ scores didn’t result in his placing in the top three – his essay got my vote for first place. He wrote with heart and compassion, which is exactly what this site is about. He became an advocate. Mr. Ferrell sent in an essay that was exactly what I was looking for when I started this contest – and he is my Honorable Mention choice. Ricardo Ferrell can be contacted at:

Ricardo Ferrell #140701
Gus Harrison Correctional Facility
2727 E. Beecher Street
Adrian, MI 49221



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Prison Conditions, Views From The Inside

Farhenheit 451 Revisited?

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I’m a student of prison philosophy.  I’ve pretty well seen it all in the quarter century I’ve been incarcerated, and I’m no expert, but I think that qualifies me for something close to a PhD (post hole digger).

This is about security, and don’t get me wrong.  I understand the need for prison security – keep the bad guys in, keep them from obtaining weapons of any kind, illicit drugs, pornography, things of that nature.  I’m not at all opposed to the security of whatever facility is being run for whatever purpose.  So, let’s not go there with the, ‘He’s just upset because he’s locked up’ BS (that doesn’t stand for Bachelor of Science).

But, I’ve come across an anomaly of biblical proportions.  I love books.  I always have, and I always will.  I’ve read nearly every book in our small prison library – some two or three times just to keep them circulating and available. 

Every six months they hold a semiannual lockdown/shakedown.  This is necessary to throw trash away, cleanse the unit of contraband and to sometimes instill order where there is chaos.  I’m not a big fan –  not simply because it’s uncomfortable, stressful, and sometimes (but not always) vindictive on behalf of a few officers who love to go through your property just to take ‘something’ that brings you comfort or happiness.  I’m part of a group of individuals who love books.  We’re getting to my point.

If you have books that aren’t clearly marked as belonging to you from the instant they enter the unit, they pile them up, like so much cordwood, and they throw them in the garbage.  Nuisance contraband…  And I don’t mean a few books.  I mean, literally, hundreds, possibly thousands, of good used books. Books which could easily be rounded up, bagged and sent to Goodwill or some other charitable organization – or the library.  Years ago, almost a decade, they’d confiscate books and put them in the library for times when an inmate couldn’t go to the library or it was closed.  Not anymore. 

It’s like the book by Ray Bradbury, ‘Fahrenheit 451’ when society bans books because they believe them to be evil or dangerous.  

I’ve never seen a book hurt anyone.

I’ve never seen a book change anyone for the worse.

Education is a key ingredient in eliminating ignorance.  If you’re smarter, you’re less likely to reoffend.  You’ll be able to fill out an employment form or an application for aid.  Reading opens up every avenue to the world – and a book never hurt anyone.

ABOUT THE  AUTHOR.  John is currently doing a two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration.  He is a frequent contributor as well as author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir recognized by Terry LeClerc, “This book is so good because each chapter is short, has a point, doesn’t whine. It’s an excellent book.”  John can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

All Posts By John Green.

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Views From The Inside

All I Got For Christmas…

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I should say, ‘All we got for Christmas,’ because it was actually for every TDCJ prisoner.  The new medical and dental copay is now $13.55 per visit.  That is an enormous savings for us, actually manageable.  Many prisoners who couldn’t, will now seek treatment.

The copay used to be $100 and forced prisoners to choose between medical care and having money to purchase necessities.  A prisoner that received $30 a month would have to pay that entire $30 towards the $100 the day of a doctor visit, and every month thereafter, TDCJ would take half of the prisoner’s monthly $30 until the $100 copay was paid off. This would leave the prisoner $15 towards his monthly necessities. Consider this list of supplies:

1 x Colgate toothpaste $2.75

1 x deodorant $2.50

15 x small bars Dial soap $3.00

1 x writing paper $2.00

10 x postage stamps $5.50

20 x envelopes $.60

Total is $16.35 – too much!!  The prisoner would be forced to remove some vital item(s) to get the list under $15.00, and forget about food to supplement the meager TDCJ meals.  No coffee.  No Christmas cards for loved ones.  All because they had to pay a $100 copay after they caught the flu or got bit by a spider (which happens with disturbing frequency).

A $13.55 copay!   A gift from the Texas legislature, but really from the public and the friends and families of prisoners. Those are the ones that pressured the legislature.  So, thank you all for your effort. The next time I need medical care I can get it without ruining any chance I have of keeping my head above water. 

Merry Christmas!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Jeremy Robinson is author of The Monster Factory, which he is currently revising. Mr. Robinson lives in a Texas prison and can be contacted at:
Jeremy Robinson #1313930
Polunsky Unit
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Views From The Inside

Guys Like Me…

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Everything I do seems to fail,
And the shit is all to find a way out of my hell.

I sold dope to feed my hunger,
Not just ‘because’.

Ain’t no other way for niggas like me,
No matter how hard I pray or work for such things.

Yeah, I write,
But ain’t nobody paying for that.

Ain’t nobody gives a shit about the things
I write anyway.

Yet I try,
But trying don’t get me out of Hell.

Everything I ever wanted or wished for
Kept from my reach.

Love, opportunity, options,
All too far to grasp.

I’m broken inside
And tired of pretending I’m not.

My life is fucked up,
Not sure where to turn.

Don’t know what to do no more,
Been locked up my entire adult life.

Everything y’all have out there
Has been kept away from me.

Can’t get a hug and a kiss…
Let alone an opportunity.

No one really gives a fuck
About niggas like me.

We’re left in hell to suffer for things
We did when we were kids.

I’m hurting,
And I’m tired of hurting.

I’d die for an hour of freedom,
Just a moment of peace.

The love of a woman,
A hug.

To go for a walk
Not surrounded by gun towers and fences.

To sit with my family,
That’s what life is about…

I’m in a hell,
A hell that isn’t worth living for.

I know now,
Can’t no one help me out of this shit.

Some people come into this world to suffer and die…
And most, unfortunately, look just like me.

ABOUT THE WRITER: Michael Cannon is new to this site, but his feelings struck a chord. I hope we hear more from him. Mr. Cannon can be contacted at:

Michael Cannon #630831
Oaks Correctional Facility
1500 Caberfae Hwy.
Manistee, MI 49660

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LWOP, Views From The Inside

Defeat

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I don’t know this Mr. Defeat
Of whom you speak.
Chances are me and dude,
We will never meet.
My enemies lie and cheat
To compete with my truth.
You are certainly right,
You don’t know me,
And I don’t know you.
But fact are facts
And real is real.
Yeah, I sold drugs,
But I never robbed or killed.
You say you feel my pain,
How could you
When it’s even too extreme
For me to explain
Without feeling strange.
I mean…
Imagine being buried alive
Not inside oak or pine.
This is concrete and iron,
Sometimes the sun doesn’t shine –
Hold on!
Wait!
Look at me when I am talking to you!
I could easily be YOU!


ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Rogers LaCaze once lived on Death Row, but was resentenced to life this past week for a crime committed in 1995. He maintains his innocence. Mr. LaCaze can be contacted at:
Rogers LaCaze, Sr. #356705
CBB L/L L.S.P.
Angola, La. 70712

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Prison Conditions, Views From The Inside

This Is How Monsters Are Made

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Human beings that can, at times, be so caring and helpful, thoughtful and graceful, can at other times be so very ugly.  When you place a man amongst a group of men that do not possess the saving graces…  a group of men that is nothing but ugly, things can go very bad.

I often hear on my FM radio snippets of humor.  Or a commercial.  Maybe a child speaking candidly, which is humorous or touching.  I hear a thirty second piece of humanity – a piece of the real world. 

I have lost the laughter of children.  Lost a million tiny human interactions that create warm, happy, positive feelings.  I have gained violence, anger and willful ignorance.   I have gained mean spirited humor and more forms of discrimination than I can name properly.  I have gained a million negative pieces to replace the million positive pieces… and I despair.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  The above is an excerpt from Jeremy Robinson’s, The Monster Factory, which he is currently revising. Jeremy lives in a Texas prison and can be contacted at:
Jeremy Robinson #1313930
Polunsky Unit
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

Solitary Confinement

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I didn’t realize my ‘normal’ wasn’t normal until I got transferred to a less restricted housing unit.  Before that, my normal was trying to sleep through the yelling and banging, being forced to show my genitals, including bending over and spreading my cheeks, every time I left my cell – hands cuffed behind my back once I did. 

The ‘normal’ I was being subjected to was making it less and less likely that once released – I would be able to function around ‘normal’ people. 

I just hope my new normal will undo the damage my old normal caused…

ABOUT THE WRITER: Mr. Reaves is a new writer to our site, and I hope we see more from him. He said a lot in four sentences – I’m excited to see what he sends in next. Mr. Reaves can be contacted at:

SC – Sterlin Reaves DX-5999
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733

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